


A Study In Sherlock

by The_Firebird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, No Dialogue, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Firebird/pseuds/The_Firebird
Summary: This is a really short, fast-paced, history of Sherlock Holmes in the headcannon I have for him. It doesn't follow cannon, it's just something nice to read that I wanted to put out there while we are surrounded with uncertainty.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 17





	A Study In Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on another work for a few days and posted a chapter today and wanted to write more but I didn't want to get burnt out on that one. I wrote this because it was what was coming to mind. I've been a little sad since an old crush of mine got in a new relationship and I wanted my boys to be happy. That's where this came from. 
> 
> It's unedited, so feel free to put suggestions in the comments. I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock couldn’t remember a moment of his life before John in it. Logically, he knew they had met when he was already eight, and people can generally recall memories from before that time.

He must have deleted it, at some point. 

The only constant in his entire life was a man with sandy blonde hair and ice blue eyes. Or green eyes. It depended on the lighting, but John Watson was loyal to a fault and stood by his side no matter his eye color. 

Growing up in the Holmes residence hadn’t been easy. Always striving to be the best, better than his brother at least, nevermind the seven year gap.

But John had never wanted more from him than he could provide. He wanted him to pick up the groceries every once in a while, clean around the flat, but he never expected him to do something that Sherlock just….couldn’t. 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes hadn’t understood Sherlock’s inability to form friendships outside of John. They hadn’t understood that people at school already saw him as somebody to pick on, and why he couldn’t just appease the general public. 

Honestly, if nobody else, they should’ve understood. They’d always pushed him to find the smallest details on a person and make the connections nobody else would. He didn’t have a mind for the public, and everybody seemed to hate him for it.

Everybody except for John. 

He spat deductions like insults, and people spat at him right back. 

After he’d skipped a few grades, some of the kids took to beating him up after school. 

He remembered the first day they met, John had been going towards the bus stop to go home and bumped into Sherlock.

As always, Sherlock hit first, that way he could make sure to get a hit in. He told the older kid that he knew all about his abusive father and reckless sibling, and braced for a punch. 

John had just laughed it off and told him that he’d been brilliant. 

John. 

Just the word was beautiful. 

John had always wanted to be a surgeon, but his family would have never been able to afford medical school and he refused Sherlock’s family when they said they’d pay. 

He’d enlisted behind Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock had been heartbroken, though he hadn’t known what the feeling was and just became angry. Angry at John, angry at the government, angry at anything within his sight because he couldn’t bear to be anything else.

If he wasn’t angry, what was he? 

In love? Preposterous. 

He was simply angry that his best friend went behind his back to risk his life and that he might never see the other man again. 

That was all.

He didn’t speak to John for weeks, up until the night before he was going to be shipped out. 

John knocked on his door and refused to leave until Sherlock came out to say goodbye. After an hour of persistent knocking and shouting, the younger man opened the door. 

That was the night they shared their first kiss. 

They lay in bed that night, for the first time.

John left the next day. 

Sherlock cried for months, his brain wouldn’t stop working on finding new ways John could be killed in combat.

Cigarettes helped for a while, but soon enough Sherlock was doing lines in shady alleys and crackhouses. Needles were next, Mycroft tried to intercept, but Sherlock brushed him off.

John came back for a while, found out about Sherlock’s addiction, and did all he could for a while. He gave a junkie a ring, it was the only thing Sherlock wouldn’t pawn off. 

He wore it around his neck, nobody except for John and him knew about it.

They got married without a ceremony the day before John shipped out for the second time. 

Lestrade found Sherlock high on the street a couple months later and offered him a job.

It was the best high he’d ever had, unless he was with John. 

He was standing in Lestade’s office, hanging onto the last bit of a level 6 case, when he got a phone call. 

He usually declined Mycroft’s calls, but the second one in a row had him opening it.

He heard the most terrifying news he’d ever received. 

He ran out the door and into an unmarked black car with a detective running after him, driving away before Lestrade made it through the NSY doors. 

John was okay, honorably discharged. Sherlock was relieved to never have to say goodbye to him again.

Lestrade burst through his door while he was fussing over John’s injury. He agreed to let Sherlock contact him when they were ready. 

Sherlock busied himself fussing over his husband for a long time, but soon John’s shoulder had healed and he was itching for a case. 

He called Lestrade and got on a case with a dead reporter. John got to see him in action and told off Sally and Anderson when they called him a freak. 

Sherlock had gotten backed into a corner with the taxi driver, nearly taking a suicide pill when a shot rang out. He barely saw the unmistakable silhouette of his husband, before they were both running out of opposite buildings. 

They met in the street, clinging to one another and kissing in front of the whole department.

It had all led to this. Sherlock sitting awake in bed with his husband snoring next to him. He’d never heard a more beautiful sound. 

Soon enough he let it lull him to sleep, the days of unrest and panic behind him. 

Now, he could just lay in bed and chase away all thoughts of war, of cases, of drugs. Of everything they had been through together. Now, he could just lay in bed with his husband, and look forward to the day ahead. 


End file.
